


The Johnlock Christmas for 2018: Advent Ficlet Challenge

by CarmillaCarmine



Series: The Johnlock Utopia (Holidays and Celebrations) Series [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 2018: Advent Ficlet Challenge, Advent Challenge - 2018, Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Christmas Presents, Fluff, Holidays, Kind of Canon Compliant, M/M, Sherlock December Ficlets Challenge, TJLC | The Johnlock Conspiracy, more tags to come
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-01
Updated: 2018-12-28
Packaged: 2019-09-05 01:12:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 6,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16800736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CarmillaCarmine/pseuds/CarmillaCarmine
Summary: Because holiday season is supposed to be a happy season, this set of ficlets will take place on the memorable Christmas we’ve seen during ASiB as it was the last truly happy Christmas time for John and Sherlock. Because I have these characters set in my head as they appear in myseries, I’ll be imagining the stage of their relationship as it was after mychapter 3(but fluffier). At that time, John and Sherlock are starting to notice their attraction, but are not in an established relationship. I shall keep it fluffy 😀 (or I’ll try, I don’t know if I’m good at fluffy). All ficlets will be standalone “slices of life” but possibly creating one fluffy Christmas story.





	1. Holiday décor at 221B

“What do you think?” John had been hanging Christmas lights around the sitting room since morning. The process had been prolonged by his need to run to the store to get one more set. 

“Atrocious!” Sherlock grumbled, adding an eye-roll for good measure. 

“I think it looks perfect,” John smiled and turned to his friend. “It levels the atmosphere in the room. Great balance between your grumpiness and bright flickering lights.”

“They make my head hurt. Can I shoot at them?” Sherlock asked eagerly, steepling his fingers under his chin.

“Well, you make my head hurt more often than not. So if I follow your logic...”

“Never mind,” muttered Sherlock, making John chuckle as he reached into the box for another string of lights. He made his way into the kitchen. With his free hand on his hip, he looked around and sighed. Placing the box of lights on the table, he turned to head downstairs. 

Sherlock pretended he was reading on his laptop when John came back with a white wooden two-step stool from downstairs and placed it on the kitchen floor. He then proceeded to move the box of lights on the countertop and mounted the stool. Sherlock caught himself staring when John stretched to hang the lights over the upper cupboards. He could see his flatmate’s bare abdomen as the jumper he wore lifted along with his outstretched arms. Sherlock’s lips were suddenly dry and only after several minutes did he become faintly aware that John had been talking to him.

“Sorry, what?” Sherlock asked feigning such fascination with the article on the laptop that he hadn’t heard the question. 

“You could help me, you know,” John grunted from the kitchen.

“It was your stupid idea to decorate. Besides, I’d rather watch you wiggle on that chair...” Sherlock stopped immediately, wishing he could call back the words that had come out of his mouth. 

“What did you say?” John turned abruptly towards the sitting room and swayed losing his balance. His quick grappling to catch onto something resulted in two handfuls of lights but nothing solid enough to keep him from tumbling over and crashing into the second box of lights on the table behind him.

Sherlock was on his feet in a split second but was not quick enough to catch John falling. He helped his flatmate scramble off the table only to be graced with a narrowed-eyed glare. 

“What did I do?”

“You could have helped me...ouch,” John winced and reached for his ankle. Sherlock took his hands away from John and held them up as if surrendering. “Bring me my kit, I think I sprained my ankle.”

Sherlock brought the box with a red cross on it from the bathroom without a word of protest. 

“What can I do?” he asked feeling somewhat guilty although he was not sure why. 

“You can finish hanging the lights,” John said smugly as he was wrapping his ankle in an elastic bandage.

Sherlock huffed but then glanced at John and sighed. 

“Fine.”

“The lights from here” John pointed to the cardboard box on the countertop, “go on top of the cupboards. And the lights from the box on the table should be long enough to cover the stair railing.”

Sherlock opened his mouth in protest but closed it before saying something that would get him into more trouble. 

John started to get up and limp to the sitting room.

“Let me help you,” Sherlock swung John’s arm around his neck to support his weight.

“Oh, so now you want to help me?”

“Shut up.”

Sherlock was setting John on his chair when the other protested. 

“I need to sit on your chair and watch you to make sure you put the lights correctly,” John narrowed his gaze at his flatmate who rolled his eyes, a habit he overused during the holiday season.

Finally seated on the black leather armchair, John observed Sherlock’s work with the decorations. The bastard wasn’t even using the step stool when he was attaching the lights to the upper cupboards. Sherlock’s black shirt came loose from his trousers and as John admired the lean frame of his friend, he realised exactly what Sherlock had been looking at earlier. John smiled to himself as he limped to the kitchen. 

“Stay put, I’m putting them up the way you told me to,” Sherlock grumbled.

“Yes, but there’s one more ornament that you can’t omit,” John reached into the shopping bag on the other side of the table and took out a piece of mistletoe. “This goes on the ceiling lamp,” John handed the plant to Sherlock and leaned on the table trying to suppress the grin that threatened to overtake his lips.

Sherlock’s expression was neutral until he attached the plant to the lamp and looked down at a grinning John. 

“It’s a tradition...” John’s cheeky remark turned into a gasp when Sherlock leaned over John to speak directly into his flatmate’s ear. 

“You’ve been very naughty today, I don’t think you should get a gift this year,” the low murmur of Sherlock’s seductive voice made John shiver and grip the table top with both his hands. The lick behind his ear made keeping his balance even more difficult, as the one leg he was standing on was threatening to give way. 

“You started it,” John retorted but what was supposed to come out in a playful tone sounded more like a breathy moan. 

Open-mouth kisses travelled along John’s jaw and ended on the corner of his lips. Sherlock hovered, giving John the opportunity to make the next move. He lifted his gaze and looked at the detective’s face above his, the mistletoe directly above them and the light from the lamp making Sherlock’s features ethereal, almost angelic if not for the sly lift of the corner of his lips.

John put his palm on Sherlock’s cheek and relished the slight tilt of the detective’s head towards his touch as their gazes met. He let out a shaky breath before pulling his friend closer until their lips met. Sherlock’s hands enveloped John’s face and he felt Sherlock’s full lips on his, so warm and soft in their tentative exploration before they opened to deepen the kiss and let their tongues meet.

John forgot his sprained ankle, the Christmas lights, even the mistletoe when at the back of his mind he realised that he really didn’t need anything else to feel festive other than the man whose hands held his face so gently and whose mouth made him feel like all was right in the world.


	2. A Shooting Star

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A continuation of the story from ch1. Fluff.  
> Prompt #2.Star of 2018 Advent Ficlet Challenge

“You have to promise we’ll be back before the 22nd ” said John.

“We’ll be back tomorrow. You will still have two weeks to do your holiday whatever it is that you do.”

John narrowed his eyes. “You always say that and then there’s another case and some other business every time.”

“Fine. If we don’t get back tomorrow, I’ll... I don’t know. What do you want me to do?”

John smiled at that, his mind going through options. “Housework.”

Sherlock shrugged. “Fine.”

“But the way I want it done, no protesting and feigning illness.”

Sherlock sighed dramatically, “Yes, I’ll do it. Or rather, I won’t because we’ll be back at Baker Street tomorrow.”

Two minutes later Sherlock received a text from his brother informing them that they had to travel a little further than previously anticipated. “The deal is off. We need to fly to Edinburgh, so there is no way...” Sherlock started saying.

“A deal is a deal, Sherlock,” John said smugly as he zipped his packed duffel closed. 

The double murder was in a small town south of Edinburgh and they took a cab from the airport to get there. Two single rooms were already booked for them at the cosy inn. 

In the evening, a loud knock on John’s door startled him as he was channel surfing the small tv in the corner of the room.

“Who is it?” John asked as he approached the door.

“It’s me,” Sherlock’s voice replied from the other side of the door. John let his friend in. He was carrying a thick folder full of pictures and documents. 

“You want to discuss the case?” John asked looking at his watch.

“I could use you to spring a set of inaccurate deductions...”

“You are such a cock sometimes...

“...in order for me to arrive at the correct conclusion.” Sherlock finished.

John huffed and snatched the file, sitting back on the bed to study the case. He felt the bed dip next to him as Sherlock moved closer to look into the folder as well. 

An hour passed while John shared his deductions, Sherlock’s nodding and absorbing the information just to point out the mistakes a moment later. That’s what they’d always done and John was fine with that. 

“Let’s go out onto the terrace,” Sherlock said closing the file and throwing it carelessly on the bed.

“Outside?” John asked in surprise. “You want to go outside in this weather?”

“Come on,” Sherlock threw John’s coat at him and shrugged into his own immediately heading for the door. 

It did snow in London, although not as much as in Scotland, but there was something else different about the snowy weather now, John thought. There was a view of a hill in front them, and the quiet street of the small town was abandoned in such a late hour. The small, old houses slowly getting covered with a thin layer of white created a beautiful and peaceful sight. 

Standing there in the freezing cold, John realised that the view was not the only thing that was different. It was the sight of his friend not in a rush, not running, but quiet, standing a mere metre from him, his tall frame illuminated by the moon. He looked at Sherlock who tilted his face to the sky and let the soft white snowflakes land on his cheeks.

“Penny for your thoughts?” John asked, reaching for Sherlock’s coat sleeve to tug him down to sit on the wooden bench right behind them.

“Just enjoying the view,” Sherlock replied still looking at the sky as the snow ceased to fall.

“Me too,” breathed John, his eyes locked on his friend’s moonlit, ethereal face. 

He moved a little closer to his friend and put his hands in the pockets of his jacket, then had a better idea and looped his arm with Sherlock’s. The detective looked down at him, his brows slightly furrowed. 

“You’re cold.”

“Great deduction, Sherlock,” John’s sass died in his throat when Sherlock put his arm around his shoulders and moved them closer together. John cleared his throat and looked at the sky. 

“You can see the stars a lot better here than in the city,” John looked up at the dark sky sprinkled with tiny stars that were so bright, and seemed close enough that you could reach for one but, in reality, were very far away. He huddled close to Sherlock as the metaphor struck him as so apropos to the man next to him. “It’s a shooting star. We could make a wish,” he chuckled. “What did you wish for, Sherlock?” 

“You.”

“No, I asked you first,” John laughed and looked up at Sherlock’s face which was still pointed upwards, with a serious expression on it. “Oh...”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!


	3. The Snowman

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock enjoy a snowy day in Scotland.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continuation of Ch2  
> Written for prompts #3.You better watch out and #4.Snowman

“I’m telling you it was the priest. Do what you will with the information, but these are facts,” Sherlock stated having solved the case of double murder in the small town in Scotland within two days of their arrival. He and John have been talking to the locals and the conclusion all but fell into their laps when they’d finally spoken to the choir boys. 

“But it couldn’t have been him!” the inspector in charge of the investigation argued.

“Once you start using that funny little brain of yours, you’ll recognise the evidence in front of you,” He turned to John then. “I had hoped that only Scotland Yard hired imbeciles, but apparently small-town police are even worse.” 

“You better watch out, Mr. Holmes. We know how to deal with pretty boys like you,” smirked a younger police officer. Two of his colleagues giggled in agreement. 

“What did you say?” John took a step towards the young man, rounding Sherlock so that his friend was behind him. John’s voice and stance alone made the officer pale and take two steps back. John approached the snickering inspector next.

“That,” John pointed at Sherlock, “is the most brilliant man you’ll ever get a chance to meet in your life, so you had better be thankful that he cared enough to drag his arse up here to solve the cases you were unable to solve all by your bloody self.”

“Come on, John. Let’s not waste anymore of our time here,” said Sherlock in a neutral tone, not sparing a glance at the gathered officers before he started to walk away. 

When John watched Sherlock’s graceful walk, the sway of his coat and the tall lines of his body as it moved away from him, an impulse came over him and he didn’t fight it. When he caught up to his friend, he brushed the back of his right hand over Sherlock’s before taking it into his own. The surprise on Sherlock’s face was almost comical but quickly turned into a slow smile as he squeezed John’s hand tighter. They walked over the thickening layer of snow on the pavement, the crunching underneath their feet calming John’s temper even more. 

They walked together for at least twenty minutes in companionable silence, John glancing giddily every minute or two at their joined hands. Reluctantly, he let go of Sherlock's hand and, following another impulse, gathered some snow and made a small ball to throw at his friend. 

He felt childish but they were far from London and that somehow made it okay to let go a little. The snow hit Sherlock’s arm and dispersed on the coat, the remnants joining the snow on the ground. Sherlock lifted one eyebrow at John in a look of amazement and exasperation both.

John grinned. “What? Haven’t you ever...” John was interrupted by a sizable snowball landing squarely on his chest. “Oh the game is on, Sherlock Holmes!” he yelled, gathering handfuls of snow and throwing them expertly at Sherlock’s back and arms. Another, bigger, snowball landed on his arm and before he managed to dodge, the next one hit him squarely in the face. 

John stumbled back with a yelp that was muffled by the snow in his mouth.

“John!” Sherlock yelled, leaping to balance John in a second and holding him by the arms. “John! Are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” John spit some snow out on the pavement. “It’s supposed to be children’s game! You’re not knocking down criminals!” 

“But we’re not children, John.” Sherlock’s blush made John’s heart constrict. 

“It’s all fine, let’s just...” he smiled at the taller man and after taking a few steps back, he tackled Sherlock rugby style to the ground. “Now, you’re covered in snow too. I’ll call it even.” John said, straddling Sherlock where he lay on the ground, his eyes like saucers looking up at John. 

It was John’s turn to blush when he realised the position they were in. He scrambled to stand up as quickly as he could given the slippery ice forming underneath the snow.

They both helped one another brush the snow off of their coats and continued their walk to their hotel. John could kill for hot tea and a hearty meal and that was exactly what he ordered once they entered the hotel’s restaurant. To John’s delight, Sherlock ordered the same. The case was solved and he could let his body digest lazily, he explained. 

They parted after the meal to head to their respective rooms and not half an hour later, a thud to John’s door announced Sherlock’s arrival. To John’s utter astonishment Sherlock extended his cupped palms towards him when he opened the door. Sherlock must have kicked at the door as his hands were full.

“It’s a snowman...” John looked at Sherlock’s face and back to his hands, confused.

“You like the winter and Christmas traditions, so I thought... It was a bad idea, I’ll just toss it.”

“No!” John said much too loudly as he tried to stop his friend from turning around and leaving. “I love it,” he reached for the three balls of snow stacked on top of each other and carried it to the terrace. “I can look at it all evening and it will be here when I sleep,” John smiled as he settled the snowman on the terrace by the door so he could be visible from the inside. “It will be like having you at night...” his voice trailed off and he squeezed his eyes shut waiting for Sherlock’s reaction. When no remark came, John straightened from his crouching position and turned to his friend. “Thank you, it’s cute.” 

Sherlock was still standing close to the door, hand on the knob and huffed at the word John used to describe his creation. He turned his gaze to the telly in the corner. “I can stay, if that’s something...”

“Yes,” John replied quickly, “It used to be a Christmas tradition in my home to watch silly movies on the telly, the ones they always air during the holiday season.”

Sherlock went back to his room to change into pyjama bottoms and a dressing gown and John put on cosy PJ bottoms and a t-shirt.

They ended up watching Home Alone while sitting next to each other on the bed. Surprisingly, John noticed that Sherlock enjoyed the movie a lot more than he let on. When the next movie started, they decided to give it a shot.

“John?”

“Mhm?” John replied still looking at the telly but turned to his friend a second later when he felt a touch on his hand. Sherlock’s fingers were tracing the back of his hand, which was resting on the bedspread between them. John turned it up to envelop his friend’s larger hand in his own. 

“This,” Sherlock’s voice was low as he looked at their joined hands, “today you did this, John.” He stopped, seemed to think over what he was about to say, John observed. That was very unusual for him. “It was...good.” He gazed at John then and the emotion in his eyes made him impossibly beautiful.

“Come here,” John moved to place a kiss on Sherlock’s cheek, his other hand touching Sherlock’s evening stubble. He pulled his friend over so his head lay on his lap and the detective went willingly, his sigh of contentment was music to John’s ears. 

John played with Sherlock’s curls as they continued watching the movie. Their hands were still linked together, in a gesture meaning more than the touch itself. John paid no attention to the movie as his senses were filled with the feeling of the detective’s head on his lap and the sound of his rhythmic breathing. Finally, he was getting the rest he deserved after a solved case. 


	4. Do you believe?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A continuation of the story from previous chapters.  
> Prompts #5.Believe #6.Fireplace #7.Memories of 2018 Advent Ficlet Challenge

They were back from their three-day trip to Scotland and it felt just right to put aside any impending chores and just relax by the fireplace at 221B

Swirling two fingers of bourbon in his glass, John looked at Sherlock doing the same to his own drink. His friend looked lost in thought as they sat across from each other on their respective chairs. 

“When did you first know that you wanted to study medicine?” Sherlock asked out of the blue.

John remembered the day vividly and was inclined to indulge his friend by telling the story.

“I was 18 and coming back from a party at a friend’s house,” John started, his memories coming back to him. “Me and a couple of guys and girls were walking to the tube station and we saw a boy being beaten in the alley.” His empty hand curled into a fist and the other gripped the glass too hard at the strength of that memory. 

“Something snapped in me then and I had to run to help him. One of the girls that came with us wielded her purse like a weapon and my other friend was a huge bloke, so we all ganged up on the assailants and they ran off.” John shook his head remembering. “Oh God, I can still smell the blood. It was everywhere, Sherlock. The boy was swimming in it.” He looked into the crackling fire and swallowed hard before continuing. 

“The boy’s nose was bleeding and both of his eyes were already swelling shut, his face was completely indistinguishable. There was blood in his black hair, all over his clothes as he lay in a foetal position, shivering in that dingy alley. It was horrible, Sherlock. I had never seen anything that shook me so badly in my life before that moment. I put my coat around him and my friends stayed with him while I went to the nearest phone booth to call 999. I rode with him to the hospital. I had to lie and say that he was my brother. They patched him up and I sat with him that evening. He was knocked out from the pain meds but I wanted to stay with him for a while anyway. I read him Orwell’s 1984 because I had it in my backpack with me. But then it came out that I was not his brother as I couldn’t even tell the staff his real name they found out from the student ID in his wallet. They kicked me out and refused to let me in the next day.” John sighed at took a sip of his drink. 

“I kept coming back to the hospital and finally a nice nurse told me that he was better. He would recover completely. The next week I applied to Bart’s. I wanted to help people who needed it, I felt that I could be useful like that. I hated the feeling of helplessness I had when I saw that boy in the alley, not knowing how to ease his pain or stop the bleeding. I was hoping at least that my coat made him warmer but there was nothing else I could have done in that moment. If I had medical training, I could have done something.” 

Sherlock had a distinctly forlorn expression on his face as he looked into the fireplace, the flames throwing a warm flickering glow onto his face. Then without looking at John, he stood up and left the sitting room. After several minutes he came back with a medium sized cardboard box and placed it at John’s feet before taking his place in the chair.

“Open it,” he said. His voice was soft, slightly trembling. John was confused by Sherlock's bizarre reaction to his story but he reached for the box. 

John’s breath caught in his throat as he took out the jacket from the box. It was a green bomber jacket with dark stains all over it. John remembered those stains when they were still red.

“Oh my God, Sherlock! This is... This is the jacket that I...” his eyes filled with moisture and his throat constricted as he looked at Sherlock who was avoiding his gaze, looking at the jacket, his hands gripping the arms of his chair. 

“It wasn’t the first time I had been beaten, and it certainly wasn’t the last, but that night was the first time someone showed that much care. The first time a stranger...” Sherlock swallowed audibly. 

John was off his chair and on his knees scrambling into his friend’s field of vision, cupping his face in his palms. 

“I’m sorry, Sherlock.”

“What are you sorry for?” Sherlock’s gaze finally turned to John’s.

“I’m sorry that I didn’t seek you out after that day. I’m sorry that I couldn’t be there to prevent any other harm happening to you...”

“You have been with me since that day,” Sherlock’s palm rested on his sternum, “I just didn’t know it had been you until now.”

“Do you believe in destiny? Because I think I do now.” John pulled Sherlock’s face towards his to place a feathery kiss on the man’s lips. His eyes closed to let the tears fall. Then he deepened the kiss, tasting the salt from his own tears as well as Sherlock’s. 


	5. A Beautiful Sight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A continuation of the story from previous chapters.  
> Prompts #14.A beautiful sight and #20.Home of 2018 Advent Ficlet Challenge

“You won’t get away from doing the housework, Sherlock.” John’s amusement was palpable as he referred to a deal, they had struck a couple of days prior. 

Sherlock groaned but, as he had promised before, he didn’t protest. “Obviously, you’d want me to do the dishes since you hate doing them the most,” Sherlock deduced, rolling up the cuffs of his black shirt, on his way to the sink already. 

“No, wait.” John said entering the kitchen. The mischievous smile gracing his face made Sherlock’s curiosity spike instantly. “Do you remember what the deal entailed exactly?” 

“That I will do the housework the way that you want it done,” Sherlock recited in a monotone, his chin up, concealing his curiosity at John’s behaviour. 

“Good.” The single nod of John’s head revealed that he was determined to pursue his plan and implement whatever it required. 

“Don’t tell me you want me to dry them as well,” Sherlock waved his hand indicating the full sink and turned his slightly annoyed glance towards John. He frowned seeing the expression on his flatmate’s face. 

“No. But the way I want the dishes to be done,” John said, taking two steps forward and stopping when the tips of his shoes almost touched Sherlock’s “...requires you losing the shirt,” John tugged at the front of the detective's shirt and pulled it out of his trousers. 

“Well...” Sherlock’s eyelids lowered as he held John’s gaze. Daring his blogger to blink, he started slowly unbuttoning his shirt. “Rules are rules.” He let the shirt slide off his shoulders and handed it to John who hung it on the back of the kitchen chair. No creases shall befall any clothing on John Watson’s watch. 

\- 

John could see the small smile tugging one corner of Sherlock’s lips as he turned towards the sink and opened the tap. John stood for a moment enjoying the view. Sherlock Holmes doing the dishes was truly a beautiful sight. 

The small movements of the detective’s back muscles under the porcelain skin proved that the man in front of him was real, that he was flesh and blood. Looking at his gorgeous flatmate, his broad shoulders, slim waist and a round arse snug in well-fitted trousers, John could hardly believe it. 

He took a step closer, resting his hands gently on the too-prominent hips, just at the waistline of Sherlock’s trousers. He let his thumbs caress the warm, impossibly soft skin before he leaned in and placed a small kiss to Sherlock’s spine. 

The detective continued his chore but his flesh broke out in goosebumps. The shoulder blades right in front of him, stood out too starkly for his liking, but they were gorgeous just like the rest of the man in front of him. John’s lips connected with the top of Sherlock’s left scapula. The kisses along the bone made the detective stop his movements for a moment. He took a deep breath and released it in a slow shudder before going back to washing. 

John knew Sherlock humoured him with the languid movements of the sponge over the plates, washing the dishes more slowly and thoroughly than necessary. He did that for him. 

The machine of a man everyone saw was in reality doing many, almost imperceptible, things to please John on a daily basis. He could make a long list of them. There had been a time when John hadn't paid attention to the reasons behind Sherlock’s careless offer of his credit card when he knew John was out of money. At times he ranted about something impossibly ridiculous just to make John smile after a long day at the clinic. There were also the convenient texts during John’s dates to give him a way out of a miserable situation. 

At first John had thought of all those occurrences as a blatant show of arrogance, attention seeking and bad timing; but it had all been deliberate and had all been to please him. Once he finally realised that, a warm feeling took place of his previous annoyance. 

Why did he insisted on having a girlfriend then? Was it habit? Upbringing? Doing the things that had always been expected of him? He wondered at times and, right now, standing so close to his friend that he could almost feel his expensive cologne invading his senses, he had no definite answer. However, certainty over several issues he previously was unsure of came to light. 

Jeanette would have to go. It was highly probable that she would leave soon anyway. They all did. Sherlock had always known that and just waited for John’s slow brain to catch up. 

“Sherlock?” John murmured into the flesh of his friend’s back. 

“Hmm?” came the response as the detective turned off the tap over the empty sink and dried his hands on a towel. 

“Are you ready to do the dusting...” 

“You know I don’t -” Sherlock turned to John but stopped his protest as soon as it started. 

“...of my room.” John’s lips quirked in a smile as he reached for Sherlock’s hand to tug his friend along and towards the stairs to his bedroom. Sherlock went willingly, the gleam of interest in his eyes impossible to miss. “Your trousers are far too expensive for me to allow them to be covered in dust,” John announced as he handed the duster to Sherlock and pressed his lips tightly to keep the giggle bubbling inside his chest.


	6. The Toy Soldier

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John finds a toy soldier in Sherlock's coat pocket.
> 
> Prompt #15.Toy soldier of 2018 Advent Ficlet Challenge

“Sherlock! Did you take my phone again?” John’s exasperated tone was not lost on Sherlock as John entered the kitchen, his footsteps a little heavier than necessary.

“Coat pocket.” Sherlock said, not lifting his gaze from the microscope he’d been looking into.

“I don’t mind you borrowing it but you have to ask,” John sighed knowing he might be asking too much. “Or at least tell me when you take it so I can stop looking for it thinking I lost it somewhere.” John stomped into the sitting room and in the direction of the long coat hanging on the door’s peg. He reached into the left pocket first but just a leather glove was inside. The right pocket had the second glove, his phone and something small and hard.

John took the phone out and slid it into his trouser pocket before he reached into the coat again. He held the small item in his hand but hesitated to actually look at what it was. It was Sherlock’s MO to snoop in his things, not the other way around. The only exception was when he was looking for drugs, then anything was fair game. This, checking what Sherlock kept in his pocket, felt like an invasion of his privacy. 

He looked towards the kitchen but there were no signs of Sherlock emerging from it anytime soon. John swallowed. Why was it so hard? Sherlock took things out of John's pockets all the time. And Lestrade’s and suspects’...everyone’s, really.

His curiosity was strong and John pulled his hand out of Sherlock’s coat pocket and frowned at the item in his hand. 

It was a small green army man, not dissimilar to one of those he used to paint by himself when he was a boy. Why was it in Sherlock’s pocket? He reached to put it back but his inquisitiveness was stronger than the feeling of propriety. 

“Sherlock?” the one-word question remained unanswered until John entered the kitchen and held his palm open next to Sherlock’s face. “What’s this?”

Sherlock frowned, looked up at John and moved his chair back to stand up. “Nothing,” he replied as he started to rearrange slides on the table without meeting John’s gaze. 

“I never pegged you for one to keep childhood toys. Sentiment being not your thing and all,” John was fishing and Sherlock was about to bite.

“This one is different,” he mumbled.

“How so?” 

Sherlock sighed and finally turned to face John. 

“When I go out alone...” he hesitated, shook his head as if restarting his train of thought. “I talk to you when you’re in the house. Although from what you’ve told me, I talk to you regardless of your presence or lack thereof.” John grunted at that then nodded for Sherlock to continue. “It helps me think. You help me think. When we’re on a crime scene, your observations, as incorrect as they usually are, tend to steer me towards the correct conclusion.” Sherlock looked down at the toy soldier in his hand.

“I’m flattered, Sherlock but what does that have to do with-”

“I need you, John.” Sherlock interrupted with words sure to shut John up. “I need you with me and when I go out alone, I need to feel that you’re there.” Sherlock took the toy soldier and held it in his palm. “When I get the impulse to talk to you, I put my hand in my coat pocket and hold this,” Sherlock closed his fingers around the small figurine in his palm, “and everything becomes clearer. It’s not as efficient a solution as if you were physically with me but it’s better than nothing.”

“Oh...” John’s mouth fell open, his gaze flying between Sherlock’s face and his hand closed over the toy soldier. “So this is... me?”

“Yes, in a manner of speaking,” Sherlock slid the hand into his trousers pocket and when he pulled it out, it was empty. 

John had a bizarre feeling imagining himself as the toy soldier, resting in Sherlock’s pocket, enveloped in the warmth of Sherlock’s thigh. Other times, being held by his detective, sitting in the palm of his hand as he looked for clues in some dingy, possibly highly dangerous places. He found himself liking the idea of always being with his friend, everywhere he went. 

“Oh Sherlock...” John sighed and released the words in a soft tone. His heart was doing somersaults in his chest.

“Is it weird? It’s weird, isn’t it? I knew it.” _Freak._ “I...you can keep it,” he took the toy out of his pocket and presented it to John on an open palm. 

“No, Sherlock. It’s not weird. It’s... you. It’s endearing,” he closed Sherlock’s palm over the soldier and let his hands hold Sherlock’s closed one before he looked up at his friend. “I like it.”

“John Watson, you’re a very peculiar man.” Sherlock stated looking down at their hands before locking his gaze onto John’s.

John’s chuckle at the comment died in his throat when he saw the look on Sherlock’s face. He felt his own cheeks flush and his body starting to wake in a warm flood of endorphins. 

He was weak in the face of Sherlock’s lust-filled stare. He was still holding the detective’s hand in both of his and used the grip to pull Sherlock closer. The detective went willingly, leaning until their foreheads met. John closed his eyes and inhaled the most magnificent scent. A scent that made his body respond, made him want to lay the man in front of him across the bed and ravage him, worship him, devour him. Sherlock’s scent.

“John?”

“Shhhh” 

“Could you put on your uniform for me?”


	7. The Gift

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John comes up with a Christmas gift for Sherlock.
> 
> Prompt #8.Music, #9.Gift and #10.Do you see what I see of 2018 Advent Ficlet Challenge
> 
> Music for this chapter:  
> [Niccolò Paganini - Violin Concerto No. 2 in B minor, Op. 7](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TwmFcu6QAqI)  
> 

John woke up to the sound of gentle strokes of the violin. The music grew more energetic and he closed his eyes to try to remember what the name of the piece was. Sherlock was aware of his meagre knowledge of classical music and tended to tell him what he was playing in a way that didn’t make him feel like a complete ignoramus. 

Paganini. Yes, something of Paganini’s, John was sure now because Sherlock had played this one before. 

John stretched on his bed, noticing that the space next to him was completely devoid of Sherlock's body heat. Pity. He picked up his military uniform from the floor where it had been thrown carelessly last night and stashed it neatly in the wardrobe. His fingers grazed over his lips, remembering Sherlock’s kisses on them. Then he touched his neck and blushed involuntarily, all the while smiling like a complete idiot. A very happy idiot. 

With a spring in his step, John made his way downstairs. Sherlock was still playing, facing the window. 

“Violin Concerto No. 2 in B minor, Op. 7. Composed by Niccolò Paganini in Italy in 1826,” Sherlock said in lieu of greeting. Ha! John was right. He felt quite proud of himself. 

“Good morning to you too,” John replied with a smile and put the kettle on. He made a fry-up for himself and Sherlock. After consuming his own, he left to get dressed, leaving Sherlock’s breakfast along with the coffee on the kitchen table. 

He had some Christmas shopping to do and he had just the idea of what he needed to find. 

He waved a quick hello to Mrs. Hudson on his way out and snatched a hot biscuit from a tray in the kitchen, barely avoiding getting slapped on the hand with a spatula. 

He munched on the biscuit as he walked towards the tube station, humming the same tune Sherlock had been playing before he had left. 

Upon his return, John found the breakfast eaten and coffee drunk, a clear sign of Sherlock being in a good mood. 

“That was really nice of you, John.” Sherlock said the moment John entered the sitting room. 

“What? The breakfast? I thought you must be starving after yesterday-“ 

“No, the box set,” Sherlock interrupted. 

“Of course you know.” John sighed and looked at the bag in his hand, inside of which Sherlock’s neatly wrapped gift lay. “I guess there's no point waiting for the day to give it to you, is there?” 

“Nope,” Sherlock agreed taking a seat in his chair and reaching for the gift. 

With a roll of his eyes, John took the box out of the bag and handed it to the demanding detective. “You’re such a spoilsport.” 

“Shhh. Sit.” Sherlock tore the wrapper throwing the pieces of colourful paper on the ground. 

The grey-red box, the length of half of Sherlock’s forearm had “Niccolò Paganini Complete Edition Box Set” written on it. 

John’s mouth felt dry as he looked at his friend. Sherlock’s beautiful eyes, full of seemingly swirling color and stars, were gleaming. Sherlock’s forehead was smooth, there was a slight uplift to his lips and crinkles appeared at the sides of his eyes. John blinked and promised himself to remember this sight forever. 

“Stand up, Sherlock.” 

“What did I do? I haven’t even unboxed it yet.” 

“It’s not that,” John took Sherlock’s hand to pull him up and made him look in the mirror over the fireplace. 

“Do you see this?” John asked pointing at Sherlock’s reflection. 

“That’s my face.” 

“Yes, that’s your content face. Not ‘happy because there’s a murder case’ face but content as in... I know looking at this face that you are not stir crazy.” 

“No, John.” Sherlock chuckled softly. “As ever, you see but you do not observe.” 

John was still looking at their reflection in the mirror but Sherlock was looking at him. 

“That face is my face when I look at you and I know you chose to stay here with me and you’re so besotted you’re even giving me presents before Christmas.” 

“You cock,” John chuckled and smacked Sherlock’s arm. 

Sherlock leaned over to whisper just above John’s ear “Is that your best dirty talk, Captain Watson?” 

John’s whole body flushed, both at the words and at Sherlock’s low sultry voice itself. 

“You called me your boyfriend in front of half of Scotland Yard the other day,” Sherlock pulled back to look at John’s face. 

“You didn’t like it, I noticed.” The raised-eyebrow look Sherlock had given John then had been unmistakable. 

“I think I’m too old to be your boyfriend.” 

“What would you like me to call you then?” John asked with a tiny bit of fear of rejection creeping into his voice. Sherlock leaned closer again, placing his hand on the back of John’s neck and whispered right above John’s ear. 

“Husband.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With this happy ending, this year's Christmas ficlets came to an end. I hope you all had a wonderful holiday season and will venture into a happy New Year.  
> Thank you for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!


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